Jigsaw
by LadyLazarus33
Summary: They were collectively pieces in the end, the right size and shape for matters of business but somehow never could fit that right when jumbled all together. Collection of one-shots in the silently chaotic lives of the FACE family.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS. **

It was funny really.

And by funny, he really meant it in the least humorous way possible. He had raised them, along with Arthur, but the support had been less tangible than him, symbolic to put the term. And granted, he couldn't remember a time when he had been that happy amongst the rambunctiousness of his own children.

The sound of the word made a deep feeling in the bottom of his gut, something, as old as he was, _he was old_, a surge of love and protectiveness so large it almost physically hurt.

That hurt tended to spill out at times. It was without question that they never were supposed to hide anything _major_. Political discrepancies and such were fine, but he swears to God if he finds another catastrophe- _somebody was going to die._ And they would die slowly.

At least, that was his inner philosophy. The _Angleterre_, would be quicker to murder than he was if the sight of danger was clear, much less that he could have blamed this irrationality.

They were nations, for God's sake, not parents finding out their son has been teased at school by the kids on the playground, but more on the unfortunately ever-increasing scale of _shut-up-you-aren't-going-to-leave-me-please-shut-up-i-know-it-hurts -don't-say-that-because-I-love-you-too-much-for-you-to-die. _

Growing up was a relief, but it never made anything easier, because now everybody understands the struggles, and the minute idiosyncrasies, and the fact is when they look at you with those eyes you wished for a moment you could eat the world raw in their names at the sight of clenched teeth and hands, biting back words of a grand old_ 'what the hell did you just say to me? Fuck you' _to the head of their country, and the silent looks of reproach you have to give them to keep the situation under some semblance of control before there even is a situation and what hurts the most is the look on their faces at the silent answer of _no-it-doesn't-get-easier-no-you-don't-always-have-a-say-no-they-will-never-stop-talking-no-sometimes-there-isn't-anything-you-can-do-about-it-and -I-know-I-know-I-know-I-know-remember-I-love-you-and-I'm-sorry._

_Damn it, he hated that word. _

Because from where he stood it was so hollow and cold and empty and always lying to you if you wanted to make something hurts less in the moment and _sorry_ never makes up for late nights and too many cigarettes and _drip drip drip_ of coffee in mouths and down throats and in the sink and it sure as hell will never make up for bad dreams and arguments and red eyes and stomachaches and migraines and _you're-not-dead-yet_ and the panic attacks on the bathroom floor and your children don't see you holding his hand underneath the table and keeping him alive with only your eyes from here to 1947 and the _i-hate-you-je-suis-désolé-fuck-you-go-to-hell-shut-up-dad-quest-ce-c'est-passe-leave-me-alone-vous-comprenez-__jamais - _and it was a sin but you were this close to pulling the trigger because the question is was it worth it _i-don't-know-if-I'm-even-worth-it-_and your reality keeps shifting with your concept of God is anything real anymore and _if-you-would-just-listen-I'm-done-don't-you-care-about-them- don't-leave-me-if-you-knew-how-much-Arthur-and-I-love-you-reviens-tu-me-manques-je-t'aime-I'm-sorry-I-love-you-too-much-for-you-to-die_ and Matthew's dizzy spells and his brother's trouble sleeping and their heart

_Palpitations_

Because from how he saw it, death had two sides: same word, different faces.

* * *

><p><em>Part I-October <em>

France glances up a t the sound of feet trudging down the hall, knowing that it is not his husband. The man would probably sleep through the second coming.

He looks at the clock. _2:47_

_He would only get up if he needed to. _

Canada is more responsive to comfort than his brother. And, as much as he hated to admit it, better at hiding.

The seconds seem to hesitate.

He can almost hear his turmoil, the judgment from an unspoken force _go-back-to-bed-you'll-feel-better-later-go-to-sleep- forget-about-it-see-you-in-the-morning-you're-19-years-old-damn-it-for-God's-sake-you-do-not-need-your-father_

But even so, the weight of a body leaning against his side is enough to give him some relief from the panic ebbing itself into his chest. He frowns at Matthew's slight shaking, book forgotten on the living room side table and he just holds him for a moment. France shifts, and Matthew slowly goes with it, curling his body into his with the same fragility of a three year old afraid of the dark. The boy's face is pressed against his neck and throat. His breaths are ragged, unsteady, and almost uncomfortably hot against Frances skin, but when he starts to move, he's left decidedly cold in his son's wake.

So Francis just cards his fingers though the boy's messy hair, musing to himself faintly that he should get it cut, and hums softly, only once. The silent command is enough to make his son jump out of his daze for a moment and concentrate on slowing his heartbeat.

_One two three _

_One two three_

The grip on his shirt is loosening slowly. Canada's nails are no longer digging into his flesh through the thin fabric.

_One two three_

_One two three_

The panic that was rising in his chest is diminishing as well, and he presses his face into the boy's hair. He smells like winter and bad dreams.

_One two three_

_One two three_

And they are waltzing on the couch and the thought itself enough to make Matthew breathe. The seconds hold their breath before Francis speaks, voice almost too loud in the quiet house.

"Qu'est que tu vois?"

_What do you see?_

"Nicoline."

_Nicole. _

"Est-ce que tu te rappelles?"

_Do you remember?_

The boy whimpers. Francis runs a hand down his back, hushing him softly. He presses a soft kiss into his bed ragged hair. For a moment he wishes he could just breathe the calm he's trying to muster out of himself and into his breaking son.

"Alors?"

_Well? _

_And somehow he is young again, too young running through wilderness with their heartbeats in sync she is something more but not as Alfred, never a womb mate, but something of him and in a strange way they loved each other for a time. _

_But like everything else, it ends. _

_And there is arguments and tension and stressful days in place of winter outside underneath the full moon and daisy chains and the smell of melting ice and sap coming from the trees and instead of see-you-tomorrow-goodbye it is what-do-you-mean-why-did-you-say-that-why-are-you-doing-this-to-me-you-never-understand-me-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-reviens-please-don't-je-suis-désolé-i-love-you-too-much-for-you-to-go_

Francis lets him ride out the shockwave until it is over. Matthew sighs, the sound bitterly sad and almost slumps against the older nation. He continues the action of running his fingers through his hair, humming softly.

"It wasn't your fault." he offers.

The boy inhales slowly, holding onto the warmth of his father's touch before getting up and moving back into his room. The last light in the living room shuts off.

* * *

><p>The <strong>1995 Quebec referendum<strong> was the second referendum to ask voters in the Canadian province of Quebec whether Quebec should proclaim national sovereignty and become an independent state, with the condition precedent of offering a political and economic agreement to Canada.

The culmination of multiple years of debate and planning after the failure of the Meech Lake Accord, the referendum was launched by the Parti Québécois government of Jacques Parizeau. An eventful and complex campaign followed, with the "Yes" side flourishing after being taken over by Bloc Québécois leader Lucien Bouchard.

The referendum took place in Quebec on October 30, 1995, with "No" winning by 54,228 votes (0.58%).

wiki/Quebec_referendum,_1995

* * *

><p><strong>WELL WASN'T THAT A BUCKET-LOAD OF ANGST. POOR CANADA. <strong>

**READ AND REVIEW! **

**Whoever posts the first review gets whatever historical event they want with France/America! NO SMUT. THEY'RE FAMILY FOR GOD'S SAKE. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

Her fingers twisted along her mouth, teeth biting into the already short nails while her other hand played with the material of the phallic blue gown she wore. Her father reached over to grasp her hand from her teeth, entwining it with his and giving her a reassuring squeeze.

"You'll ruin your nails," Francis chided softly.

"Like I give a damn," she muttered. A part of her couldn't even look him in the eye, all bright and shining as so _good_ it almost made her sick. Francis cocked his head like the cat she knew he was, the blond locks framing his face swish with his action. The rest was tied back with a black ribbon.

"Whatever damn you could be so kind to give could be focused on not looking like someone is going to attack you."

Amelia slammed the fan she had been twisting in her hand shut with a sharp snap. Francis gives her that look and for a moment she can't decide whether to hit him with the object or hide her face into the lapels of his coat. Instead she sighs, staring at the ground with a waning indifference and growing annoyance that he knows is going to come bursting forth.

"I'm…._nervous_." The word is practically spat out at him, but he's glad she's at least saying something rather than scowling at the world with coldness. Her voice had dropped from the angry speech to something of a melancholic reflection. The words she was saying were only half to him. "Nervous, angry, wretched because of my actions and his words and both of our mistakes and nobody wanted this I mean I certainly knew it _et Papa il detest moi je le sais-_

"Arête." The command is firm but calming and it put a halt to the ramblings of her mind and mouth. Amelia closed her eyes, trying to block out the scene of general partygoers and political chatter and the headache invading her head at this moment.

Francis makes no firm indication, but somehow in her dazed state they are in one of the vacant rooms of the large estate and she's burying her face in his chest. She doesn't cry- any tears she had went away eighteen years ago- because she needs to find something to be strong in and it sure as hell wasn't going to be her own resilience. (As if she had any to spare)

"Calm down." Francis breaths. Amelia barely notices his chin on top of her head, fingers tracing soothingly on the skin left bare on her back. She takes in a shuddering breath and he counts the seconds in his head_- un duex trois _– and by then he knows that she's pretty much ready do something other than drown in her own fear. "Look at me."

"No." The way the refusal is put out makes him want to laugh. She sounded like a child, face hidden in his chest like somehow she would be able to speak the words into him like blowing air through a reed. Francis is not like Arthur, in the respect he has at least unending tolerance for minor rebellions, and waits until her head slowly comes up.

His thumb rubs underneath her eye and down her cheek, mimicking wiping away tear tracks though there aren't any to spare. That provides comfort in a normal sense, though the kiss on the forehead moves it from general to specific and Amelia gets that funny feeling in the back of her brain as to exactly how much their parents really loved them.

"He doesn't hate you."

"But-"

Amelia begins to interject but her comment is stopped by a warning, albeit forever loving, look and his finger on her lips. She rolled her eyes at the childlike approach and he removes the digit, forcing her to keep his attention.

"He doesn't hate you. You know that. People are complicated and as much as you don't want to admit it you two are people and you make mistakes."

"Yes, but the manner of fixing-"

"Will take time. You won't forgive each other right away."

* * *

><p>"You're afraid?"<p>

The question was not really a question, more of a statement of what Arthur already knew. What they both knew.

Matthew's grip on the wine glass tightened slightly, knuckles turning slowly white. It would break if he wasn't careful.

"Terrified."

Arthur only hummed, letting the taste of red wine stay on his tongues as he drank. The younger nation didn't know whether to waste himself away (though the act would be virtually impossible) or smash the container to the ground. He might gain some satisfaction in watching something else shatter other than his relationships.

A part of him wanted to hate her.

"The war is over, but you still look at things in black and white. She's a person, just as much as you and-"

"You don't think I know that?!" Matthew's voice is akin to his grey eyes, sharp and cold. "As a nation, I did what I was supposed to do. What I _had_ to do."

"I'm not arguing with that. You know that." Arthur reasoned coolly. Matthew silently hated it when his father did this. "But there's something else, correct?"

"As a person, how could she not despise me?"

"Do you hate her?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I hate her for what she did and hate myself for both our actions."

"There's no point in forgiving anyone right away, be it ourselves or her. It takes as much time to fix something as it does to break it."

Matthew exhales slowly, a part of him seeing the logic in his father's words and another part growing ever more nervous at the thought of seeing his sister- just thinking the word made him internally flinch. In light of everything, his conscience overran his rational, cold hearted thinking and this- well, the conversation now wasn't making him feel any-

* * *

><p>"Better?"<p>

Amelia nodded, before wincing slightly as the buzz in the back of her brain increased slightly, signaling her brother's arrival in the vicinity. The elder nation led his daughter back outside, feeling her nails digging into the fabric of his arm.

Matthew feels the breath caught in his throat and nearly chokes on the wine he had been drinking at the sight of her- _was it a mistake for her to be wearing his favorite color?_

Both of the siblings could feel the tension in the air increase before they even caught sight of one another and locked eye contact with an ever-increasing visibility of _oh-God-oh-God-oh-god-oh-god_ and his sister- the word is still bitter even now- is trying to keep a straight face in the midst of _I'm-sorry-what-don't-you-understand-you-hurt-me-but-that's-no-big-deal-now-is-it-we're-rebuilding-the-house-now-no-thanks-to-you _and her brother is gripping his glass a bit more tightly with an realization that both France and England cold see of _I-did-what-was-right-and-I'm-sorry-i-wouldn't-have-done-it-if-it-caused-you-pain-i-still-love-you-did-you-know-that_

Her eyes flicker down to her hands as they stand in a somewhat awkwardly huddled mass on the edge of the room. Matthew followers her gaze, watching the digits slowly fiddle amongst themselves. Both of their minds are on overdrive, she can feel that much from him, and is eternally grateful that he won't invade into her headspace without her permission.

Somewhere in the awkward thirty seconds of silence, Arthur and Francis have managed to move from the two of them. Amelia barely registers the light squeeze of reassurance Arthur gives her as he walks away, the taller French nation a few leagues ahead.

Matthew bites the inside of his cheek, lightly shifting from foot to foot, and a part of her wants to fight back a giggle at his childish habit.

_Baby steps. _

Amelia exhales slowly, trying to get used to his absolute nearness. The scar on the back of her neck burns slightly. Matthew rubs the back of his neck in response to the irritation and she can slowly feel the both of them relax.

"Do you want to dance?" The words are blurted out in an obdurate and weighty rush, but Amelia can see the sense of desperation in his gaze of _please-I-can't-lose-you-again_

A smile and she takes his hand.

* * *

><p>The <strong>War of 1812<strong> was a military conflict, lasting for two-and-a-half years, between the United States of America and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, its North American colonies and its American Indian allies. Seen by the United States and Canada as a war in its own right, it is frequently seen in Europe as a theatre of the Napoleonic Wars, as it was caused by issues related to that war (especially the Continental System). The war resolved many issues which remained from the American Revolutionary War but involved no boundary changes. The United States declared war on June 18, 1812 for several reasons, including trade restrictions brought about by the British war with France, the impressment of American merchant sailors into the Royal Navy, British support of Indian tribes against American expansion, outrage over insults to national honor after humiliations on the high seas and possible American interest in annexing British North American territory (part of modern-day Canada).

wiki/War_of_1812

* * *

><p><strong>This was short and was in my documents for the past three months. :P Continue or no? <strong>**I know that technically this should have been a spat between England and America, but I thought "hey, let's make it a fight between siblings! That's always fun!" *grabs popcorn* **

**And yes, America is a girl. Couldn't help myself. Genders might be switched occasionally... DON'T JUDGE. :) **

**READ AND REVIEW! :) **


	3. Chapter 3

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

Alfred pulled away suddenly, and to his dim senses felt the rim of a basin cold against his chin as he vomited up his dinner from hours before. Francis rubbed his back, pulling the nation's dirty blond hair away from his forehead. Alfred leaned against him, turning suddenly to straddle Francis' waist and bury his face into his neck before the shaking started. Francis sighed, lifting himself up into a better position against the bedpost from where they sat on the carpet. The sobs that came were pitifully hollow and loud in the quiet house, but Alfred seemed to show no sign of being able to stop.

"I-I- d-d-d-didn't- Mattie, I-" he tried to speak only to collapse into heaving cries again. His grip on Francis' shirt was almost painful, but he paid no heed to that, moving his hand into the young boy's hair.

"_Oui, je sais, je sais..."_ he soothed,pressing his lips against Alfred's forehead. The comfort only seemed to make Alfred cry harder.

Half an hour found him near hysterics, and Arthur peeked in worriedly, eyes flickering between his son and husband.

"Matthew?" Francis' eyes asked.

"Sleeping in our room." he mouthed.

Francis nodded, eyes locking again on the wall as he rocked America back and forth, hand reaching behind the younger nations neck and pressing. Arthur flinched as he saw America suddenly go limp in France's arms. He stepped forward for a moment, stopping when Francis shook his head.

"Go to bed, _mon cher. Ça va?_ I will stay with him."

England's eyes narrowed for a slight moment before nodding and heading down the hall.

Francis sighed again, the rocking motion never stopping even when the sun crept in and cast early shadows along the floor.

He woke up to the smell of roses and salt.

The combination itself didn't make any sense, but he felt his stomach protest in response. Blond hair brushed against his cheeks and he lifted his head slightly only to feel a firm hand on the back of his skull push him back down gently.

Why did he feel so dizzy?

"Shhh..._L'Amérique_. Go back to sleep. It's still early." the voice said from above him.

Francis?

His hand was numb, but he didn't have the energy to actually move. A half garbled protest made its way into the air and he felt Francis chuckle before planting a kiss into the nations hair.

_"A m'asseoir sur un banc cinq minutes avec toi_

_Et regarder les gens tant qu'y en a_

_Te parler du bon temps qu'est mort ou qui r'viendra_

_En serrant dans ma main tes p'tits doigts_

_Pis donner à bouffer à des pigeons idiots_

_Leur filer des coups d' pieds pour de faux_

_Et entendre ton rire qui lézarde les murs_

_Qui sait surtout guérir mes blessures_

_Te raconter un peu comment j'étais, mino_

_Les bonbecs fabuleux qu'on piquait chez l' marchand_

_Car en sac et Mintho, caramels à un franc_

_Et les Mistral gagnants"_

Alfred sighed sleepily, body movements pulling himself even closer to the older man and burying his face into his neck, which he was surprised to find was damp.

_Had he cried all night? _

Francis felt the young boy stiffen against him as the memories of the previous night flooded through his brain. Frowning slightly, Francis wrapped his arms around Alfred in a death grip though the nation struggled slightly, muttering garbled half-protestations that didn't make sense to either of their ears, though the one half-strangled whisper against he skin he knew all too well.

_"I'm sorry."_

"_Non, non, non, non _you have nothing to be sorry for, _mon petit." _Francis soothed, slipping his too cold hand underneath the nations shirt to sooth the beginning of the scar that ran from almost halfway around his back and across his stomach.

"I couldn't choose, I couldn't-" Alfred broke off, trying to control the sobs that were building up in his throat and pressed himself tighter to his father. The coldness of his hands made him numb, made him forget.

"Alfred?"

The shape huddled on top of the rumpled sheets didn't move. Matthew bit the inside of his cheek, moving over to the side of the bed to face his brother. The nation's eyes were glazed, unfocused even when Matthew's hand rubbed along his shoulder.

"Alfred... Alfie you gotta get up and eat something." The use of the childhood nickname made Matthew flinch.

A something akin to a moan came out of the older nation's mouth and he could feel America shaking slightly.

_'Can't...stomach-sleep.'_

_'I know, but you've been sleeping most of the day. Come on. Try, for me.' _

Three minutes passed before he could see any sign of movement through the dim lighting. The curtain had been drawn shut, only a small amount of natural daylight coming through. Matthew placed an arm around his waist, throat tightening when he could easily feel the bones underneath his shirt. They moved together, slowly down the hall. The only sounds in the house was the rain hitting the roof and windows, along with the quiet chatter of their parents on the second floor.

_'Meatloaf?' _came the thought question.

_'Yeah. Your favorite. Don't worry, Papa made it._

Alfred only hummed slightly as they made their way into the spacious dining area. Almost immediately, he felt England's hands running through his hair before pressing a kiss on the top of his head.

"Idiot. Thought I was going to have to hire my own private detective to come find you."

A small smile came across the nation's lips and disappeared quickly as it had come. Alfred sat at the table, trying to ignore the buzzing in the back of his skull and the sound of cannon fire in his ears from another nightmare.

The sounds of forks on plates filled the room as well as the quiet mixtures of French and English as they ate. He slowly spooned a bite of the food into his mouth, letting the flavors wash over him.

_Assassin. _

_Murder._

_Monster._

The other him grins from the side of the room, mirroring his position exactly from the corner of his eye. There are smell of smoke is so real he can feel his eyes begin to water.

_Alfred._

Go away.

He could hear them screaming now, women and children watching as their husbands and fathers were cut down one by one. The stench of blood permeated the room. The two of them crouched by his seat, and he tried to ignore their whispers.

_Hero or monster?_

_Angel or demon?_

_Jekyll or Hyde?_

_Just choose. _

He grabbed the napkin with trembling fingers, spitting out the food before bunching it in his lap. The chatter stopped then and he could feel Matthew's hand grasp his.

'Alfie?' the nation thought, clear blue eyes dark with worry.

America began to sob then, fingers twisting the napkin until he thought the cloth might tear.

_"It tastes like ashes."_

* * *

><p><strong>It's fun starting things <em>in medias res. Yes. I did just use Latin. You're welcome. <em>Brownie points for anyone who knows what it means. :)**

**Definitely redoing this later, but just wanted to post to see first responses. Ideas or suggestions? Let me know in comments! The song that France sings is one of my favorites: _Mistral Gagnant _. Super pretty and sweet and you guys should look it up! **

**Read and Review! **


	4. Chapter 4

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_Going up, going down, down, down_

_Anything for the crown, crown, crown._

Primadonna||Marina and the Diamonds

* * *

><p>The funny things was, when he looked back over the events of the years, there wasn't any clear answer to if it could have been stopped. Hunger had always been a problem, existed since the dawn of time, but now- in all honesty, it had never been so concentrated into such deep centered <em>need<em>.

Even with the sweet red of wine on his tongue and _les petits gateaux_ and _fromage_ and the dizzying affect that everyone had on everyone else in that palace Louis built. To him, and in the nativity that he was cursed-_or did he choose_- with, summer was forever, as was everything else.

Everything but the bread.

* * *

><p>The cries of various persons crowded in the room was giving him a headache, and the representation of France steps out of the room to clear his head. He leans his head against the wall of the building, swiping off his hat in a rare occurrence before the figure beside him spoke.<p>

"Are you sure about this?"

_Il décrète que tous les membres de cette Assemblée prend immédiatement un serment solennel à ne pas séparer et de remonter partout où les circonstances l'exigent, jusqu'à ce que la constitution du Royaume est établie et consolidée sur des bases solides ; et que, le serment de ladite pris, tous les membres et chacun d'eux individuellement doivent ratifient cette résolution inébranlable de signature._

France turns to England, biting back any semblance of a sharp retort, before seeing the genuine look of unease in his friend's eyes, before it disappeared altogether. He tries to ignore the slight twinge in the back of his mind.

"Absolument."

* * *

><p>They had tried to flee.<p>

It didn't work of course.

* * *

><p>When they start executing left and right, he knows something's not right about it. On another cold day, and with a grand death- ninth one this week- he feels like he's the head rolling into the streets. Francis turns away from the sound of cheers, the taste of blood and pretends the feeling in the pit of his stomach is pride.<p>

* * *

><p>As he sits in a vacant section of the palace, he doesn't even have to turn around in his chair to know England is behind him.<p>

"Come to gloat?" The words are biting and a part of Francis wants to flinch at the way they sound on his tongue.

"No." The nation rubs his eyes in growing frustration and exhaustion at the deteriorating state of his friend. The only sound between them is Francis gulping down another glass of Mourvèdre and sitting back with a heavy sigh.

"They want to execute her." England states, hoping for something to shock Francis out of his state, but he doesn't even move."They plan to destroy _everything_." Arthur positions himself in front of the man, containing the shock in his body at Francis' too thin frame underneath his clothes, hair limp and ragged, eyes bloodshot and stark against his pale skin. "Are you going to do _anything_?" The words are practically hissed.

Francis can feel the clockwork slowing down in his head and for a moment his eyes flicker back to the bodies in his streets, starving or slaughtered, it didn't matter anymore at this point. His hand lifts up absentmindedly to rub his wrist and Arthur wants to scream at the scars littered across the pale flesh.

Francis' eyes flicker up to meet the nation's, dull blue meeting intense green. "Austria's going to kill me."

The last sound Arthur hears as he walks out is glass shattering amongst laughter.

* * *

><p><strong>FRENCH REVOLUTION FOR THE WIN! (SAID NO ONE EVER.) <strong>

**But really, guys. Sorry if I didn't do France justice with the whole descent into madness stuff, but this lasted like 10 years, and I am not going to write ten years worth of history in a tiny Fanfic. meh. Me being lazy. *cries because of history* **

**Historical Note: The major paragraph in French is the famous Tennis Court Oath of 1792. Major part of the French Revolution and reads as thus: **

_It decrees that all members of this Assembly shall immediately take a solemn oath not to separate, and to reassemble wherever circumstances require, until the constitution of the kingdom is established and consolidated upon firm foundations; and that, the said oath taken, all members and each one individually shall ratify this steadfast resolution by signature._

**Cool right?! Over here in awesome USA we got most of our ideas for government from the French, for which we are eternally grateful. :) Any suggestions for improvement or just normal requests? Let me know in comments! **

**READ AND REVIEW. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_Dedicated to Goesto11._

* * *

><p><em>January 1946<em>

Surprisingly enough, they come as a unit into the too spacious bedroom.

They had all gone to bed a reasonable enough time, though the pounding of a growing thunderstorm outside was enough to jolt both Alfred and Matthew from their mix of shared and not shared nightmares. Alfred jolts awake in a panic, covering his ears of the thunder that he knows is bombs and _oh god why couldn't he just die it wasn't fair stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstop- _

Canada puts a firm, but gentle hand onto his brother's shoulder, practically dragging the boy up and down the hall to the only real sense of solace they actually had. The dark hallway is enough to make the both of them flinch at the unspoken memories of freezing nights outside and the smell of corpses-

As soon as they enter the room there is some shifting, before the bedside lamp flickers on with a groan of slight annoyance.

"Boys, it's two in the-"Any complaint on the Arthur's lips died at the sight of his sons, both looking ready to fall apart at any moment. Francis rubs his eyes, sitting up and frowning at the sight of their children. Matthew held onto Alfred, who looked about ready to collapse, his eyes bloodshot from the constant interruptions of sleep. Alfred whimpers as another rumble of thunder comes from outside and echoes through the house.

Arthur looks over at the man beside him, but the request doesn't even need to be asked before he has Alfred curled up beside him. Matthew is beside Francis, his back touching his brother's. Alfred stifles a sob, burying his face into his father's neck for some semblance of relief, though the panic gripping his chest is enough to make him break underneath the weight of his own memories.

He's shaking.

England lifts himself higher against the bedpost, stealing a glance at Francis, who is combing his fingers through Matthew's hair in some attempt to calm him down as well. The boy gives an unsteady breath at the gesture, curling more deeply into the Frenchman like he could become part of his body. Alfred bites his lip to keep his crying under control, though it does little good. England places a hand underneath the boy, pulling him over until his legs are entwined with his and his head is against his chest.

America can hear the low drumming of his heart.

"Tell me about before." The request is mumbled against his shirt amidst heavy shudders and gasps.

England feels the twinge of pain in his heart, so real it makes him wince. "Alfred-"

"Please. Anything to make them go away." Alfred's voice breaks at the last statement and he can feel the scar on his stomach begin to burn slightly. "I c-can't lose them ag-g-gai-n-n-"

"Hush, sweetheart." Arthur moves a soothing hand up and down the boy's back. "I remember the first few months. You wouldn't sleep at all. Neither of you would. Your father and I didn't understand it." He could hear France chuckle dryly at the memory before speaking, voice low and tinged with sleep. Matthew shifts slightly and he runs a hand down his back.

"_Oui_. And the both of you would cry and cry and cry if someone wasn't holding you. More often than not it had to be one of us." Arthur cards his fingers through America's messy hair as the shaking begins to slow down.

"There was a point we didn't get any sleep for two days straight." England breathes.

"We'd walk up and down the house; and the two of were so little but could wail as loud as anything. Didn't matter what time of night it was. We fed you, sang, read, but nothing. Not even a yawn." France cracks a small smile at the memory of dark-

_Nights with the window open and showing the two of them the constellations in the stars they had learned from their pirate days and the baby in his arms shifts slightly grasping his father's shirt with impossibly tiny fingers dear god he was so tiny-_

Both the boys breathing has slowed down considerably, and before long they are on the edge of unconsciousness. Their parents have to smirk at the irony of the situation as the children in their arms- _because that's what they were reduced to after the hell from the last five years-_ fight the urge.

"We would walk around and be begging you, making all kinds of promises if you would just stop and go to _sleep._ But all you did was look at me with those big beautiful eyes." England sighs, moving the boy slightly higher against him. Alfred shakes slightly, before his father presses a kiss against his hair.

Alfred's body gradually relaxes as the minutes pass by, letting the lull of his father's voice drown out everything except the sound of slow breathing. He moves his body, sinking further into his father like a cushion, and nuzzles his face into the warmth of his shirt.

France is looking at him with those sad, blue eyes of his and he feels a twinge of pain in his heart of how _old_ he feels sometimes. How they both feel at times. Matthew's hand moves from its place against France's chest, groping for his brother's in his sleep. Alfred doesn't even shift to comply, instinctually moving closer to his twin and grasping his hand as he slips into deep unconsciousness.

The parents sigh before sinking down lower into the covers, holding their children closer as the night passes on and try to pretend the empty feeling in the pit of their stomachs is nothing but a lack of sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>*SOB* I was trying to make this fluffy, but then...angst and sadness and history and ugh. But the memory thing is kind of cute. This is more focused on America and England, but the whole FACE gang is involved. Poor guys. :(<strong>

**Note: The songs that inspired this Fanfic are:**

**Marianne by Tori Amos **

**Avril 14th by Aphex Twin **

**The Secret Life of Daydreams from the _Pride and Prejudice_ Soundtrack **

**READ AND REVIEW! :)**


	6. Chapter 6- Part I

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

_May 15, 1946_

_Manchester, United Kingdom_

_53.4667° N, 2.2333° W_

_Local Time: 13:44 p.m. _

Sunlight came through the tall windows above the rows of benches lined up on either side of the long expanse of the hallway. The light only seemed to make the white of the military office more glaring than it already was. Seemed to only magnify the emptiness of the color, the room, and the ticking of the large clock hanging above the double decker doors down the hall.

Canada wanted to smash it into the ground.

He hadn't stopped twisting the dial on his own pocket watch for the past hour, messing with the time on it for some semblance of relief from the ticking on the wall and in his own head. He runs his fingers over the engraving again- _Happy Birthday. Love, Arthur Kirkland-_and just feeling the words make his throat begin to burn before he swallows them down.

America's knee hadn't stopped bouncing up and down for the past two and a half hours they had been sitting here waiting. Matthew had to practically pin him down every time the doors at the end of the hall opened or even moved in the slightest. He rests a hand on his brother's moving knee to give him at least some appearance of one of them being calm, though Alfred knew his brother was as nervous as him.

_256 fucking days. _

The realization of that makes his blood boil and Matthew's grip on his twin's knee tightens before Alfred lets out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding through clenched teeth. "Sorry." He mumbles, rubbing a hand over his eyes and tries to remember the last time he really slept. _Exactly __6 years, 8 months, 15 days and_ _3,526,560 minutes but then again who's counting? _

Canada only nods, but doesn't move his hand. "It's natural, Al."

The nation shakes his head before running a hand through his hair in growing, if anything more prevalent, agitation. "I'm scared, Mattie."

The use of the childhood nickname makes the both of them flinch and he grasps his brother's hand to give himself some grip on reality before he fell apart at the seams. "I think for the both of us 'scared' would be an understatement."

Alfred chuckles dryly at that before heaving a long sigh. "It's over at least."

Matthew hums in agreement. The silence hangs for a while before he speaks, voice reflective. "Do you remember when we were little-"

" Pre-Revolution?" Alfred hums, crossing his arms and shifting slightly to make himself a bit more comfortable on the hard bench. He should have been used to hard surfaces by now.

His brother shakes his head. "No, before that. Like _really_ little. And they would have to go on these long trips to keep in touch with their bosses for months?"

America smirks. "We thought it was the end of the world. Every-

"_-time to go! For God's sake Francis, hurry up!" Arthur yells from the library, his voice carrying along the house bustling with people carrying papers, boxes, suitcases out the door and down the road to the docks. He checks his watch for the thousandth time before the Frenchman appears in the doorway. _

_"__Sacré Bleu, will you stop yelling? I'm here. Anyone else would think you were being murdered." Francis mutters, examining the documents still scattered across the table. They were both on edge from the weeks of planning both from and back to the colonies. Arthur sighs, busy organizing his section of papers before his ears pick up an indignant cry. Two actually. _

_"__Don't go!" _

_Arthur doesn't even have to look up to see his two sons clamoring into the room, nearly knocking down the groups of people carrying various supplies. The tugging on his pant leg isn't new either and he knows if he looks down they won't be getting anywhere anytime soon. He shoots a look at Francis, who merely shrugs. _

_America is standing there, practically a dwarf to his father's tall and lanky frame, blue eyes furious as much as a two year olds could be. Arthur's vibrant green oculars flicker down to his son, who apparently dragged his brother along with him. He crouches down to his level. "Alfred, you know I have business to attend to overseas, as does your father." _

_"__Don't care. Stay." Alfred crosses his arms and England has to fight the urge to laugh at something so adorable. _

_"__Please?" The request comes from his brother behind him, quieter but vocal nonetheless. Arthur sighs, making eye contact with France before the nation comes and picks up Matthew. Alfred follows in the same manner as England. _

_"__Can we come with you, Papa?" Francis laughs at the request from Matthew, shifting him slightly before answering. "I'm afraid not, mon petit choux." Matthew giggles at the nickname. Alfred turns to his father with a somewhat disappointed look on his face before Arthur internally sighs. _

_"__I don't want you to go." The confession is hurried before the toddler's face buries itself in Arthur's neck. Both parents have to smile at their children's desires, before Arthur cards his fingers through the boy's hair in a sense of comfort. _

_"__We'll be back before you know it."_

"Kirkland-Bonnefey?"

The voice of the woman at the end of the hall jolts the both of them out of their daydreams before standing up. Matthew waves his hand in acknowledgement and the secretary motions them to follow her before walking forward, the sound of her heels echoing through the long hallway.

_Dear God, why did his heart feel like it was going to explode? _

The North American twins lock eyes with each other as they move through the double decker doors to a smaller corridor and turn left before stopping in front of an office.

"They're just inside. Good luck." The woman smiles before walking back. Matthew nods before glancing at his brother who looks like he's about to pass out. He grips his shoulder and for a moment the both of them can practically taste the lie they were fed-_don't wait up we'll come back soon take care of your brother ok_- before it swallowed down like a pill and sits like several boulders in their stomachs.

_265 days. _

The door opens without a sound.

* * *

><p><strong>*angry noises from readers* <strong>

**I know, I know. Cliffhanger, but this is only part one! Don't worry! Goodness. **

**READ AND REVIEW :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

"Continuez à lire"

_Keep reading. _

Francis has to smirk at the mumbled request from the girl lying beside him in the long grass. One hand holds the book while the other was carding the long fingers through his daughter's hair. Amelia shifted slightly from her place, readjusting where her head was laying in her father's lap.

« J'ai pensé que vous étiez endormis. » came the reply.

_I thought you were asleep. _

Amelia only grumbles, twisting blades of grass between her fingers in a moment of half alertness and half full blown unconsciousness. A piece of it tickles her ear, once, twice, before she swats away her brother's hand with annoyance.

"Stop bothering your sister, Matthew." Arthur warns from where he's leaning against the tree. The four of them were huddled underneath the tree and it's expanse of branches, letting half rays of shadow and sunlight come through. Matthew only shrugs, going back scribbling in the notepad he brought earlier. Amelia was the only one of them who didn't sleep or in better terms refused to sleep the entire trip here.

"You should sleep." Matthew suggests to which she shakes her head, plucking a daisy and watching it against the sunlight. Francis smirks, meeting his husband's eyes with a sense of knowing. _She'll be out in five minutes tops._

"There's no point Matthew, she's been the same way since she's been an infant." England mutters, crossing his arms and glancing at his daughter, who only sticks her tongue out at him. Amelia pokes Francis side with a finger and he sighs, returning to the book.

_"_Rousseau says,_ 'If we assume man has been corrupted by an artificial civilization, what is the natural state? _

This section of the Petit Trianon was empty save the four of them. Francis could almost feel the trees expanding with every breath they took, like their own lungs were bound to the ground by roots.

He meets Arthur's eyes and almost flinches at the quick flash of sympathy in his vibrant green eyes before it was gone, or better yet, diminishes to the point he could reasonably ignore it. "_This is ridiculous,"_ she had laughed. He remembers the young woman surrounded by attendants, blue eyes wide with wonder and excitement and the look of _I'm so happy I could die_ was so large that it nearly made him choke. For a moment he almost feels selfish, knowing in the back of his mind that it wasn't going to last. It never lasted no matter how hard he tried.

_The state of nature from which he has been removed?_

Matthew has abandoned his drawing of the landscape before them, moving over and leaning his head on his sister's stomach to which she doesn't object. His feet rest on Arthur's lap who leans his head against the tree and watches the wind play with the stalks of green. Francis just tries to block out the image of the queen with sunlight in her hair.

_Imagine, wandering up and down the forest without industry, without speech, and without home."_

Amelia's breathing is slowing down and she shifts slightly, eyes closed before she slips into unconsciousness altogether. Her brother lasts for only another two minutes before he joins her, breaths low and even. Arthur gives a sad smile to the Frenchman, and a part of Francis wishes he could take this and draw it out forever.

"Are you admiring your work?" Francis doesn't look up from the book when the question floats through the air, catching on sunlight before disappearing to the back of his brain. He fingers the pages of the book, feeling the intense gaze of his husband from where he's sitting and can practically taste _you know they love you you're not going to lose them I promise. _The Frenchman looks down at the dozing girl, softly running the back of his hand along her cheek as though she was made of glass. Amelia nuzzles into his touch in her sleep.

"Just saying goodbye."

* * *

><p><strong>Sooo...<em>Marie Antoinette<em> (2006) anyone? Say what you will about the film, but it's one of my favorites. This is based off of the scene depicting the queen's private life in Le Petit Trianon in the film, which I really love the feeling of. I honestly feel there would have been strong sense of regret on France's part due to what happened with Marie, not necessarily on the nation side, but the humanistic parental side as well. It's like promising to take care of your friend's puppy for a week and when they come back that puppy is not only dead but your entire house is in a state of uproar. And dog poo. :( Nasty. **

**And forgive me if this isn't my best, as I'm sure a lot of you wanted to know what happened next back in chapter 6- *dodges slew of bullets from gunfire on angry readers* but we will be getting there...eventually. **

**Normally I'd suggest for you to listen to the songs that inspire me, but right now I am telling you listen to this piece to while reading this. Go. Right now. Not even joking. **

**_Opus 23_ by Dustin O'Halloran (funnily enough also on the Marie Antoinette soundtrack from the film. Irony. Gets you in the feels every damn time.)**

**READ AND REVIEW :) **


	8. Chapter 8

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

It's the flashing of his colors in the distance that seems to bring him out of the state he's in.

The police officer is friendly, enough that anyone could be at three in the morning, asking him the simple protocol that Alfred knows is the law because he was there when it came into play. He doesn't make eye contact with the man, trying to figure out the muddled feeling in the back of his brain. _Have you been drinking-__**no**__- are you on any medications, prescription or otherwise-__**no**__-do you know how you got here-__**I don't even know if I'm awake**_

The sight of his father two hours later at the station should be some relief to him, but neither him nor Arthur say anything until he slides into the passenger seat, leaning his head against the window. England grips the steering wheel with bone white knuckles but doesn't start the car. He leans his head against the headrest of his seat, green eyes flickering to the hunched form of his son in the seat next to him.

Boxers and a white t-shirt wandering the back roads at three in the morning _in the middle of fucking September._

"Why?" The question drops like a weight in the silence of the vehicle.

America only gives a ragged exhale of breath, feeling the cold air release itself out of his lungs and disappear into the dark.

* * *

><p>They pull into the front of the house and from the sleep that is invading his mind at that moment, Alfred can't even find the energy to unbuckle his seatbelt. The lights are on in the spacious dwelling and for a moment he feels like a sailor lost at sea looking at a lighthouse.<p>

The door on his side opens and there are muted conversations in a garble of French and English that is fading in and out and someone is carrying him inside and up the stairs before he sinks back down into the dark.

France and England watch Matthew climb into their bed along with his brother, clasping his hand for some sense of reassurance on both their parts before the light flickers off. Arthur sighs, leaning his head into Francis's shoulder before a pair of arms wrap around his frame and squeeze before letting go.

As much as he hates it, the look in those clear blue eyes said _this_ could wait until morning.

* * *

><p>The next time it happens, he's somehow on the roof.<p>

* * *

><p>The dip on his bed at precisely 9:07 p.m. does nothing to stop his blank stare at the floor of his room. The physical contact however of a hand however is new and he looks into the eyes of his brother with a mix of fatigue and numbness. Canada says nothing, leaning his head against America's shoulder and linking their fingers together as they tried to find solid ground.<p>

_I'm sorry_. The thought itself is more like a whimper and Matthew only hums.

_Don't be._

* * *

><p>The pills do nothing but deepen his sleep.<p>

_And the nightmares._

* * *

><p>It's the thirty seventh night and he's not even in his room, rather hunched on the couch with his back curled and knees pressed to his chest as he tries to focus on anything but the never-ending cycle in his brain of <em>tiredtiredtiredtiredijustwantittogoawaypleasegoddamnitwhycan'titjustgoaway <em>

He doesn't even notice he's having an attack until England sits beside him, wrapping his arms around the shaking boy who at the moment is trying to figure out why his heart wanted to claw its way out of his chest.

England only combs his fingers through Alfred's hair, almost wincing at the ragged breaths he feels against his throat. The nation's hand is pressed against England's chest, concentrating on his heartbeat and it takes five minutes-_only three less than the last time_- for him to fully calm down.

Alfred breaths a heavy sigh, eyes closing at the soothing motion of his parent's hand rubbing up and down his back, humming softly.

"Does it get any easier?" The question innocent, though the weight is _anything but._

England says nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>*sigh* I honestly have no idea where this came from, but I liked the idea of sleepwalking America. This is due to me listening to too much classical music late at night...also watching Hannibal on NBC...again. Late at night. DON'T JUDGE ME, YOU DO IT TOO. <strong>

**Songs that inspired this fic: **

**_Gymnopédie No.1_ by Erik Satie**

**And...surprisingly a painting as well helped me write this. _The Priestess of Delphi_ by John Collier (1891). Super pretty picture and my new phone background...DON'T JUDGE. I LIKE ART AS WELL AS HISTORY. Anyways, here's the link to that if you guys want to see it. **

** wikipedia/commons/2/25/Collier-priestess_of_ **

**READ AND REVIEW! :) **


	9. Chapter 9

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

It's been eight months and he still doesn't understand how something so small can make _so much noise._

The representation of England wakes up, more like jolts, from a barely caught _forty-five minutes_ of sleep to the sound of crying at the end of the hall. England buries his head in the pillow, not even wanting to look at his watch, before being prodded in the shoulder by his less than happy partner.

"Can't you do it?" Arthur whines. The sound is muffled by the pillow and he almost slips back to sleep before the poking increases-harder this time. His head snaps up to glare at France, who is only half awake. "We're his _parents_. Hence the use of _pluralization_." England hisses.

"Before sunrise he's _your_ son." France mumbles, sinking deeper into the covers before falling back to sleep and ignoring the grumbles of the man. Arthur sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and swinging his legs out of bed for the third time that night before moving down the hall.

The lamp on the table in the side of the room flickers on revealing the four pale yellow walls of the nursery, three separate drawers, two cribs, and one very upset infant almost to the point of wailing in his cot. America continues to cry even as his father picks him up, rocking the colony back and forth. The noise was beginning to get to him and he takes one hand to try and quell the increasing migraine coming forth.

"What's the matter Alfred? And whatever it is can't it wait so Daddy can get some _sleep_?" Arthur croons to the infant. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with the boy. He'd been fed a few hours ago, changed as well. Even with the constant hushing coming from his parental unit, he still continues to fuss. A small cry from the opposite cot alerts Arthur's ears before-

_Oh dear god, please no. _

And now Matthew was awake.

And crying.

England takes a deep breath. And another. And another. And another. And another. When that didn't work, he moves to the doorway with the still crying Alfred in his arms. _"Frog!"_ The call was more yelled than whispered, though at the moment they were the only one in the spacious house.

It takes less than three seconds for the man to appear in the doorway, blue filled to the brim with exhaustion and annoyance. "_Quoi?" _ The Frenchman practically spits the word. Arthur says nothing, jerking his head to the other wailing infant left in his cot while he tried to soothe Alfred. Francis heaves a heavy sigh, moving past him and into the nursery. Matthew only continues his wails as France picks him up, rubbing the infant's back.

"Shhh…_Quel est le problème, ma chérie ? »_ Francis soothed. "Did your father wake you up?" The words are shot in Arthur's general direction with a vehemence only brought on by the amount of time they had both gone without any sleep.

England's glare was enough to level buildings, to which France only shrugged. "Are they hungry?"

"You don't think I've already thought about that?!" England hissed. His stress levels was through the roof and seemed to be feeding the child in his arms. America only seemed to cry harder. "Maybe if you weren't so focused on sleeping, maybe this wouldn't be a problem!"

"_Mon Dieu_, you're blaming me for the nature _of an infant_. You think I haven't been trying as much as you?! I haven't slept for _four fucking days_." The words are growled Arthur's way.

"Well _excuse me_ for wanting the best for our children!" England spits. The commotion from both adults was not helping the situation at all with their two now waling infants. Green meets blue before a heavy sigh splits through the air and the both of them are filing out of the cramped quarters of the nursery and downstairs.

The change of scenery and start of movement seems to calm the twins down, and in a few minutes it was just a matter of getting them to actually sleep that posed a challenge.

"At least they aren't crying anymore." France states, moving up and down the long corridor. England hums his agreement, slowly rocking the colony in his arms, but not getting so much a yawn from the baby.

"Come on, love. You have to sleep sometime." England murmurs to Alfred. The child only blinked up at him with big eyes. The family had been up for the better part of two hours so far and the exhaustion was beginning to take the last of what both of them had.

"Arthur."

The quiet call from France prompt the nation to turn around and move over beside his husband where he stand by the window. The curtains were open, letting the moonlight spill into the house and the mix of colors swirling in the sky. Reds, blues, and greens mixed together in the sky, moving along the hazes of light like a ballroom floor.

_Aurora Borealis. _

« _C'est beau n'est ce pas ?_ » Francis breaths and Arthur knows he isn't talking to him. Both twins' looks are fixated on the moving flashes and beams of light in the night sky. The rocking motion continue on both the parent's parts and they almost don't notice the slow and steady breathing of the children in their arms, lost in sleep.

The two nation's eyes meet and both crack a small smile at the situation currently, momentarily casting a glance down at their two boys before looking again out into the night sky.

"Make a wish." France says softly, eyes still fixed on the sky outside. Arthur says nothing, still slowly rocking the young colony in his arms as the time passed on because he can't voice something as childish and silly and so impossible that it makes his heart hurt just thinking-

_Please stay like this forever._

* * *

><p><strong>*angry cries from readers* I'm sorry! Not everything is sunshine and roses okay! God. Hope you enjoy this copious amount of fluff. It was actually pretty difficult for me to write. It's definitely not one of my favorite pieces I've written, but cute nonetheless. Guess I'm not a lovey dovey type of person. *laughs* who am I kidding? I'm not. *goes back to watching Firefly* YES RIVER. NO POWER IN THE 'VERSE CAN STOP YOU. <strong>

**Songs that inspired this fic:**

**_The Seal Lullaby_ by Eric Whitacre **

**Super pretty choir piece guys, and this is coming from a choir nerd so yes I am biased. The alto/men part...*dies* Any requests, PM me or let me know in comments! ****READ AND REVIEW!**


	10. Chapter 10

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

_For Autumn_

* * *

><p>"Dad?"<p>

The whispered request is enough to slowly bring Arthur Kirkland out of his dreaming state, and the man rubs his face before sitting up in bed and seeing the form of his son beside him. "What's the matter? Are you hurt?"

Matthew shakes his head, and in the dim light he can see the boy's hand rest against his stomach. "No, I'm fine. It's-"Arthur sees his son flinch, before grey eyes flash towards the open door and down the hall where the light came from the corridor. Francis shifts beside him on the bed before sitting up and blinking at Arthur with bleary eyes.

_"Qu'est-ce qui se passe ?" _ Francis muttered, before looking at the figure of his son standing on Arthur's side of the bed. "Matthew? What are you doing up?" The boy opens his mouth to speak before the three of them are alerted to the sounds of retching down the hall. Francis is out of bed first, with Arthur and Matthew on his heels before standing outside the closed door and knocking softly. "Amelia?"

The only reply is a heavy groan.

Arthur looks at Francis for a moment before breathing in a heavy sigh, hand on the door knob. "Matthew, go back to bed. We'll take care of this ok?" Neither he nor France have to look to see the worry building up in their son's eyes, gaze flickering to the closed door before nodding and heading back to his room.

They step into the room quietly, only to be greeted by the light set on the dimmest setting. England turns it up higher, holding the shock in his throat at the sight of his daughter, curled on the cold bathroom tile with her body heaved over the toilet.

Amelia doesn't notice them at first, and she isn't even done vomiting the last vestige of her dinner that night before she feels fingers brushing the hair out of her face and rubbing in her back. A minute passes by before her stomach feels empty, and has resorted to only painful dry heaves. She spits into the porcelain bowl, wanting to gag at the taste of bile and the smell of vomit all over her.

_God, her head was on fire. _

"I'm f-f-fine," she managed to choke out, before somehow another wave nausea hit her and she bit back a groan.

"Like hell you are." England growls, and she winces at the sound of water being run in the sink beside her. Arthur lifts her up to her feet, but her knees only buckle and she slumps against him, still muttering her protests.

"I'll hold her." France offers, putting down the toilet seat and flushing. Amelia doesn't even feel the transition, her brain going back to cold nights and no sleep and _so much blood she was going to drown in it- _

Arthur wrinkles his nose at the sight of vomit stains on his daughter's shirt, passing her more securely to Francis. "Undress her. I'll get some new clothes." The nation nods, watching him leave before moving the girl to sit on the toilet seat cover and unbuttoning the front before easing it off of her frame. Arthur returns, setting the clothes on top of the counter and turning off the running water.

The both of them ease her up, keeping a steady hand on her in case she was going to collapse again. Amelia's hands grip the edge of the sink, trying to focus on anything else but the sickness in her stomach and the darkness in her brain. The cold water is a relief, and she rinses her mouth, spitting out the mixture of fluid and bile into the sink.

_She was pathetic. _

England expects the anger and moves her before she can do any damage to herself. She's back on the toilet seat, much to her dismay, before the new shirt was pulled over her head and her brother's pajama pants hauled over her hips.

The door is shut and the familiar click from the lock is heard before she realizes that there are only two of them are still in the bathroom. England is leaning against the closed door, vibrant green eyes trained onto her form. Amelia doesn't look at him.

"Why didn't you tell us?" She only scoffs at the question, running a hand through her hair.

"What's there to tell?" came the reply, but she wanted to scream into his face _everything I'm sorry but I already feel weak enough as it is I don't need your pity besides they're just bad dreams-_

She visibly flinches at the sound of England's hand against the countertop before he takes a deep breath. "Please, don't take us for idiots Amelia. You haven't been recuperating and you and I both know it."

The scar on her stomach _burns_.

Amelia's head doesn't even lift up and the words, though spat at the floor, are filled to the brim with bitterness. "You don't know anything. I am _not_ your colony anymore, Engla-"

"_You're still our child_, and I don't care if you like it or not. I-I'm tired of this Amelia, the secrecy, the lying, everything!" England stressed, running a hand through his hair.

"What do you want from me?!" Her voice breaks and grey eyes filled to the brim with held back tears glare up at her father. "D-do you want me to spill my guts to you like you're God, bend down my knees like it's some sort of penance?!"

"You hide and pretend that everything's fine, when by holding everything in you are killing yourself!" England spits and it takes all of her energy to stop the words from spilling form her lips of _yeah well maybe I want to die anything to get rid of the demons using my head as their own personal playground have you ever thought about that_

"I don't need you hating me anymore than you already do."

_Did she just say that out loud? _

The words themselves are choked out before she curls her knees up to her chest, and buries her head into them, trying to quell the sharp panic in her ripping her chest apart and her fingers buried into her hair trying to block out the sights and sounds

_Shiloh 23,746 _

_Antietam 22,717 _

_Chattanooga 12,491_

_Gettysburg 46,286_

England's hand grasp her wrists and releases the hold her fingers have in her hair before she rips out the tresses by the roots. His parental side is overcome by his anger at himself for not realizing this sooner and her own stubbornness of not letting any of them help her when she so desperately needed it. She's fights his grip but he doesn't let up and even though she's hiccupping and gasping amidst sobs and crying and _god damnit it's been six fucking months why couldn't she sleep without seeing every one of their faces _she still won't let up in her ways.

"Look at me." His voice is firm and calm and a part of her wants to listen but she knows that he'll only think her weak. Her gaze is set firm, eyes red and puffy and looking at the white of the bathtub beside them rather than on her father's face.

_"__Amelia Elizabeth Kirkland-Bonnefey, The United States of America, look at me this instant. " _The words are snapped at her and it's not without one hand holding down her wrists and the other gently grasping her chin and forcing her head to turn. She almost flinches under his intense gaze boring into her own.

"I-"Amelia begins, and _hates_ how raw her voice sounds before he silences her.

"Shut up. I am going to talk and you are going to listen, clear?" She only nods once before he begins to speak again. "Let's get something straight. You and I may get on each other's nerves, yell, hit, scream, throw things at each other, and let's not pretend that hasn't happened, "-_he had the scars to prove it- _and you are without a doubt the most hard headed, stubborn, ornery young woman I have ever known, and I may seem like the biggest asshole for not always appreciating that, but under no circumstances will I ever think you weak, pathetic, or less of a representation when you need help. _There is absolutely nothing you can do that will make me stop loving you, ever_. Nothing on this earth, in the entire universe that will ever make me not want you. Do you understand me?"

Amelia says nothing for a few moments, staring at him in utter shock and disbelief before he suddenly finds himself tackled with her arms around his middle and her legs straddling his waist as she sobs into his neck. _"I'm going insane." _The words are whimpered against his skin and he takes a slow breath, rubbing her back over and over. "This is worse than what actually h-h-happened and there's so much blood. They won't get up, they're all inside me-"

"It's okay. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." England soothes, kissing the top of her head. He coaxes her head up as her sobs give way to only short gasps and whimpers a few minutes later. He wipes the tears from her eyes, relinquishing the hold her teeth had on her lip with the pad of his thumb.

Amelia blinks. _There is some lightness from the weight in her head._

She leans her head against her father's chest, hearing the warm beat of his heart underneath his shirt. England cracks a small smile, and she's so tired to even notice him hoisting her up against his chest and carrying her out of the now dark bathroom. The cool of her sheets is a relief and she's almost under as she moves closer to his warmth. England kisses her forehead, breathing the unspoken _i love you more than I can bear sometimes _into her and sinks down into the dark.

His presence was definitely a catalyst for her mending.

* * *

><p><strong>Awww...that was me trying to be fluffy and failing miserably without the whole angst thing coming in. *sigh* Civil War you guys, not fun time. <strong>

**Historical Note: The names said in the middle of this are specific battles that happened during the Civil War, and were also considered major turning points on both sides. ****Ok.. I'll cut a deal with everyone. If I get five reviews for Jigsaw, I will continue Chapter 6: Part I. Promise. :) PM me if you have any requests for what you want to happen with the FACE family next! **

**READ AND REVIEW! **


	11. Chapter 11

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

The nineteen year old doesn't meet his father's hard gaze, partly being too tired to lift his eyes form the floor and the other trying too hard to concentrate on quelling the constant ache within his stomach. The representation of Britain sighs, finger's drumming slowly against the windowsill as he turns back to staring out the window. England runs a hand through his sandy blond hair in frustration. He was just as tired as his wasting away son.

"Was it something I did?"

There was a resigned sigh to that, but he only guesses that Alfred made some indication of a head shake. Alfred's nails are scratching on the fabric of his jeans.

"You realize you can't keep on doing this." His nails dig into the skin of thigh through the fabric of his pants.

"You can't tell me what to do."

England pinched the bridge of his nose at the familiar words, trying to keep his own calm in front of his frustration and absolute fear, but failing miserably. He turns from the window to see Alfred getting up and watches from his place by the window, leaning against the wall. America bites the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger, and England winces at how painfully bony his fingers are now.

"I know you're scared-"Arthur begins before the boy whirls around to face him, eyes blazing.

"I am not scared and I _refuse_ to go to someone to talk about what I do and what I don't do. You don't think I know?! I hear about it _every single fucking day,_ 24/7, 365 days a year. _'Alfred what did you eat? Have you eaten? Isn't that a bit much? That's all you're going to have? __**Eat, eat, eat!"**_

He sinks down then, collapsing onto the low couch and buries his fingers into his hair and keels over to press his forehead against his knees. Arthur waits a few seconds before stepping forward, crouching in front of him.

"Alfred, sweetheart, I know it's hard," he soothed, coaxing the boy's head up with his hands.

"I want to listen, I do. But it's like there's this war going on in my head, and I don't know how to stop it." America sobs, before England has him in the circle of his arms, rubbing a hand up and down his back. He winces at the feeling of his spine protruding from his back.

"Please." The request is whispered against his hair. America only breaths a shuddering gasp.

* * *

><p><strong>*heavy sigh* This really isn't my best, but I had this thing in my head all day. Bear with me people. I promise I will expand on this but I only need a few more reviews until I continue Chapter 6:Part I. Think of this as the sad appetizer before the super yummy meal. :) <strong>

**Writing Note: As much as I have seen and from what I've read, the United States has the highest rate of eating disorders in the world. Sad :( **

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	12. Chapter 12

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_"Our country owed all her troubles to him, and God simply made me the instrument of his punishment."_

* * *

><p><em>April 26,1865<em>

She had been in the bathroom for nearly three hours now.

The concern was, of course, never-ending, but the patience that the both of them were supposed to be endowed with was wearing thin at the seams. For the allotted time, he had heard the water run in the porcelain container, shut off, drained, and then run back again.

The silence in the living room was deafening. Arthur's fingers twitched from where he sat on the couch, biting his lip as he determined his course of actions.

There is reasoning on one side of his brain, to wait and let her process, collect her thoughts and bearings before a host of her government came to their senses and started looking for her, which wouldn't occur for a while given the circumstances. And then there was the overwhelming urge to comfort, assure, to make everything better.

That couldn't happen for a while, no matter how hard he tried.

"Matthew's coming over. He'll be here in about an hour." France's voice is dull, and the only response from England is a hum, almost wincing at the sound of water being drained once more from upstairs. There was always a sort of silent connection between the two of them, something that grew over centuries of knowing one another, and something that was rooting him down to this spot due to Francis' stubbornness.

"She's hurting." England absentmindedly picks at the material of the couch to distract himself from the ache in his chest at the statement.

"I know." France replied, blue eyes flickering to the stairs.

The both of them glance at one another, and it takes less than ten seconds for them lift themselves off the couch -Arthur isn't sure who made the movement first- and moving up the stairs and down the hall to the closed door of the bathroom.

England opens the door slowly and the both of them are hit with a burst of steam.

The nation has made some movement in the bathtub, knees curling tighter to her chest and gaze set in the water, her expression empty and distant. The steam curled off of her skin and half wet hair. Arthur could see the drying mats of bloody hair from where he stood, not being touched by water.

France leans down to pick up her clothing off of the floor, trying to ignore the bloodstains scattered across the pale blue fabric, and sets it onto the counter while his husband moves closer to the girl, sitting down on the floor.

Their daughter's breathing is irregular.

"They're gonna be mad." The words aren't even directed at him or France, but muttered to herself and the water before Arthur clears his throat.

"It wasn't-"

"It was my job." She moves slightly, the scalding hot water threatening to spill over the tub and he can hear her spine click. "Stupid girl. Should have listened. Should have-"

"_Non_." The words are from France this time, sitting down beside England and reaching a hand out to turn the nation's face towards him. Amelia visibly winces at his touch. "It's normal, you know that."

"_It's weakness_, " she spits. Her arms move from around her knees to rub her hands up and down them, expression full of distaste. "_Je n'ai pas ressenti ce sale dans ans_. "

That hurt.

Both men look at each other as she turns her head from them again, gaze set firmly on the water. The bloodstains are still evident, scattered and harsh on her pale flesh. Her parents were not going to push her on this, but the matter needed to be addressed sooner or later, though she would have preferred the answer to be closer to never.

The shame was a constant, the fact that she couldn't do _anything_ no matter how much she wanted to.

England can practically hear the battle going on inside her brain, but says nothing of it, his hand reaching out to comb his fingers through her hair. She had yet to submerge herself, wash away the surface sins.

She smelt like death and remorse.

The action make her loosen almost immediately, only physically and he can feel the man's blood collecting underneath his nails. Amelia doesn't quite clutch herself anymore, leaning into her father's touch with a ragged exhale.

France turns to reach underneath the sink, rummaging around before finding and grasping a white pitcher from the dark space before opening one of the dressers on top and pulling out a comb. England is already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

"I felt ugly." The words are dropped like a stone. "When it happened, I could feel it on my face. In my bones."

"Different." France corrected, dipping the pitcher into the too full tub. She watches his actions with little interest, blue eyes following the line of water as he rinsed out the container a few times.

"Powerful, changing. Never ugly. Not in this case." England pointed. Amelia looks at him, and he can feel the protest on her lips before she swallowed it. France passes the comb to England, whose fingers proceed to undo the matted clumps as he poured the hot water over them.

"How did you feel when he stopped breathing?" France asked quietly. She doesn't answer him right away and he grasps the washcloth on the rim of the tub, dipping it in the water and running it over her shoulder. There's a bruise turning purple near her neck, and an already healing cut running down her arm. She winces when he runs the cloth over it, clearing away the bloodstains.

"I didn't feel powerful."

"No?" That was England, fingers still moving. Amelia hums, trying to find the right word before it is hesitantly exhaled.

"I felt…_rewarded_."

"An eye for an eye." Francis notes, wringing out the cloth. "We're proud of you either way." She moves to comply with his actions, hand cupping her throat lightly and raising her face towards the ceiling as he poured the scalding water over her hair. England grasps the comb, running it through.

The whole process of combing out the combination of blood and gore took nearly thirty minutes.

By the time they were done, the water had turned to a delectable shade of pink and America watches it with slight interest. "Will Mattie know?"

"Of course he will." England says softly. The both of them have her hands in theirs, dipping two washcloths into the pitcher now filled with cold water. Her knuckles are bruised and bloody and she hisses through her teeth at the contact of cold on her flaming hands. "He won't have a problem with it, unless you want there to be one."

Amelia snorts, eyes closing as she breathed in and out. "I'll tell you one thing. Seeing the place burn like that was glorious."

France laughs at the statement, earning an eye roll from his husband. "And history will be none the wiser, hm?"

The statement itself puts a reality to the situation, and she hums again. Something in the room was lighter, though she couldn't exactly tell what. "Love hides a multitude of sins." Amelia breaths, resting her head against her knees as they finished.

England brushes a damp strand of hair from her face, sighing and leaning forward to press his lips against her temple. He could still smell the blood on her and the sense itself was comfort enough. "This wasn't a sin, love." The pad of his thumb wipes away a crimson spot on her cheek before bringing it to his tongue and sucking it off. Still slightly warm, with the metallic taste of rust and something that smells like her.

_"__Seulement une bénédiction " _ France says quietly, breathing the words into her as he kissed her forehead before moving to the door. Amelia blinks, looking up at the two of them with a somewhat dreamy smile on her lips. The pride spreads through France and England's chests like wildfire.

"Try not to fall asleep in here. Matthew coming in twenty minutes." England says and she snorts, leaning her head against her knees. "I know better than to drown," Amelia calls after them as the door shuts softly.

_She would be fine._

* * *

><p><strong>*sighs* I am strangely very content with this chapter. Hahahaha. <strong>

**Yeah guys, America killed John Wilkes Booth. 'nuf said. Sorry if that wasn't terribly clear. She's not expressing distaste towards Lincoln, but more on the fact she had grown so attached to him only to have him ripped away. Sad really. By the way, guys, I only need a couple more reviews until I continue Chapter 6: Part II. No reviews=no story. And then everyone is sad. :( So get to it! Please. :) **

**Historical Note: April 26, 1865 was John Wilkes Booth's death. He was 26. **

**French Translations: **

**(1) "I haven't felt this dirty in years."**

**(2) "Only a benediction." **

**The quote at the beginning is a passage from John Wilkes Booth himself, found in his journals about the assassination of Lincoln. **

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	13. Chapter 13

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

"How long is this going to take?"

The air in the woods is only comfortably warm, surprising given it was the beginning of July, but a relief for the four nonetheless. Although warm, the sun was obscured by clouds, letting only dim patches of sunlight come through onto the forest floor. The twins shrug off their jackets, handing them to France who moves to put them into the car. It was worth it to give everyone some sense of level ground.

England doesn't answer Matthew immediately, and both of the younger nations watch in interest at their father's fingers as he rapidly loaded up the shotgun with bullets- _they were old enough for it now_- and placed the safety off.

France comes back over, similarly doing the same process and straightening himself up. The Englishman lifts himself off the forest floor, cocking the gun with a sharp sound that echoed through the forest. Alfred looks around, and for a brief moment notes the extreme _emptiness_ of their surroundings before turning back to his parents.

England smiles. The calmness of the act makes him want to shiver. "As long as you can keep running."

They are gone as soon as he finishes counting backwards from five. France smirks, hoisting the gun up and over his shoulder before looking at his husband. "Give them a minute. It's their first time with the real thing after all."

"Don't worry." England reassures, hoisting the shotgun and taking aim amid the trees. "I'll be gentle."

The shot echoes through the forest.

* * *

><p>They stay together for a while, moving quickly amongst the trees. Alfred halts, listening for a moment.<p>

_How long? _

_Three minutes and twenty four seconds exactly. _Matthew winces at the fourth gunshot, somewhere closer to his brother's left. They look at each other, moving in separate directions.

* * *

><p>He had forgotten how much it hurt to get shot.<p>

Matthew tries to ignore the flash of white lightening creeping in his shoulder and keeps moving, turning around a tree only to feel the sharp pain of a fist connecting with his jaw. The pain is immediate, but he moves anyway, blocking another swing from England's arm and twisting it back before feeling his foot shoot into his shin.

Canada groans as his father's fist connects with his stomach, stepping back and managing to swing a blow to his shoulder and knee in quick succession, ducking another thrust.

The blood loss was beginning to be a problem.

He shoots a kick into England's stomach and ends up knocking the elder nation to the ground. He searches for the shotgun to see it kicked against a tree before he feels a hand wrap around his ankle and trip him off his feet. England is now on top of him, hands wrapping around his throat and squeezing. Matthew kicks up his feet underneath amidst the oxygen rushing from his lungs and pushes the man off of him and scrambles to his feet. He looks around to find the shotgun moving closer, before the familiar white hot pain imbeds itself into his right shoulder this time, a poppy stain of triumph staining his shirt and dripping to the ground.

He turns to see England coming towards him with the shotgun while France has America hoisted against his chest. His brother's lower abdomen is stained with red which only grows.

"Son of a-"

He doesn't even feel the butt of the weapon as he blacks out.

* * *

><p>Nothing.<p>

Not for a long time.

* * *

><p><em>His head was on fire. <em>

Matthew's mouth and throat feels like sandpaper and his eyes open blearily to find the surroundings of light blue walls. His head turns slowly, much to his body's protest and looks at the face of his brother. Alfred blinks at him before smirking.

"They can put up a fight can't they?" The words are practically croaked.

A low humming brings both boys to attention and Matthew slowly sits up, groaning at the fire in his shoulder. They are in their parent's bed. England is moving about the room, putting their soiled clothing into a basket whilst France looks up from his book, not a hair out place.

"Oh, good. You're awake." The smile on his face makes both of them want to scream with rage.

"You've been out of it for about two days. Just in time too." England says. France lifts himself up out of the chair as England grasps the emergency kit from the bathroom.

As confused and annoyed as they are, the change of bandages is a relief. Alfred leans his head against England's shoulder, hissing as the wrappings were pulled back. The tension was pulling at the stiches. England only croons to the boy as though he was much younger, placing the new bandages onto the wound, which had already begun to heal.

Matthew winced as France repeated the process with his shoulder, listening to the soft sound of French and English lull him back down into a drowsy stupor. His father fills his hand with the weight of pills and he swallows them, the cold water relief to his parched throat.

The parents card fingers through their sons' hair. Canada nuzzles his face into the warmth of his father's shirt, breathing in the faint scent of wine that made him drowsy just thinking about it. England presses a kiss into America's hair.

"Happy Birthday, boys."

* * *

><p><strong>HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...ha. <em>I have no idea where this came from<em>. Seriously. Parents, hunting your children and shooting them is not a sufficient birthday gift. At the very least get them a puppy or something _before_ you go hunting. My mind is an interesting place. I wrote this in like thirty minutes so that's cool. **

**Seriously, I have no idea. **

**I need more reviews for Jigsaw! Also as a personal self interest thing, tell me your favorite chapter, and favorite line or lines from said chapter! If you don't have any then just leave something that you enjoyed! Thanks! :)**

**READ AND REVIEW! :) **


	14. Chapter 14 (Chapter 6-Part II)

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

In the dim haze of his existence so far, England couldn't really bring himself to care whether or not the government official was giving prevalent information or not.

Unseen by the man sitting in front of them, rambling on about official business and news and matter of upmost importance, France's hand rests on his knee. A sign of reassurance at the very least. He had stopped listening completely at least ten minutes ago, trying to eyes from glancing now and again at the clock hanging on the opposite wall adjacent to his husband and entertaining himself with the lull of his own thoughts.

_Dear God, was war always this unnecessarily complicated?_

Even so, the both of the nations give an occasional nod or hum of agreement as the time passes on and words are tossed at them with not retrieval or return. France's grip on England's knee grows tighter as it begins to bounce up and down, putting a premature end to the noticeable action.

_We have five minutes left. _

_I thought you said that an hour and a half ago. _The words that invade the Frenchman's headspace are full to the brim with annoyance. Bright green meet dark blue for a moment, gaze challenging before the both of them sigh inwardly.

_Is this how normal parents feel? _England huffs, absentmindedly running his nails along the armrest of the chair from where he sat. France scoffs.

_I don't think we would even begin to categorize ourselves as anything in the realm of normalcy. But…I suppose the feeling would be on the same level. _

"-things in order. Thank you for staying with me through this whole thing, gentlemen." The words bring them back into the conversation at hand. Francis gives a warm, but tight smile, annoyance growing at his husband who couldn't really seem to do anything but scowl at the whole situation. Not that he could blame the less than cheery behavior.

The man stands, moving to the front of the door, papers that needed to be signed still cluttered on top of his desk as he signaled to one of the guards standing outside. "Call them in now." He steps out the door, speaking over his shoulder at the two nations before leaving. "They'll be here in a few minutes. I'm sure you're excited to see them."

_Try absolutely terrified. _Arthur thinks as the door shuts, leaving the two of them alone in the office.

"Another question to ask, who made the rules that parenthood makes one into nothing but a body of extremes?" The representation of France laughs at the question, tucking a lock of blond hair behind one ear. In the action, his sleeve moved up, revealing the lines of raised flesh that covered the skin of his wrist and disappeared underneath the fabric of his jacket sleeve.

His eyes flicker to his husband with a sad smile twinging at his lips. "You should be used to your own by now, _cher_."

The nation sighs, rubbing a hand across his face in pure and utter exhaustion. "I know. " Even at the mention of them, the thick patterns of raised flesh on his back seemed to burn like his own streets only three years previous. He flinches at France's touch on his back, rubbing slowly up and down in some effort of relieving him from the memories. "The boys-"

"Will love you regardless. You've been alive long enough to know that." The arms slips around his shoulders, holding him in a somewhat awkward embrace. Arthur lets out a heavy sigh, before reaching in his pocket and pulling out two cigarettes. The two of them watch in disinterest as he lights the both of them, handing one to France before taking in a sharp tar caked inhale before letting it out slowly.

"I don't feel alive. I haven't felt alive in years."

He can feel France's breath in his hair. He was pressing his face into it, breathing in the everlasting scent of tea and rain and books, before taking his own drag. "Neither have I. But, in the end, like everything else, it fades with time. And we just keep on existing." _For them._ He wants to add. _For the boys that we dreamed about every night after we cried ourselves to sleep when the screams became too much. _"I forget sometimes that they think us gods."

Arthur snorts. "You mean monsters." He slaps his forehead as if coming to a great realization before sitting up and turning to his husband, voice humorless. "Oh, wait. No, that's the same thing isn't it?"

"I don't understand why you would label us as monsters."

"I don't understand why you would label us as gods." England raises an eyebrow, smirking around his cigarette and taking it between his fingers to flick a few stray ashes onto the carpet. " If anything, we could say we are..._victims_ at the very least. We are the landscape for which human paint their own scenery, be it good or bad." He gestures to the nation's wrist. "You don't think to give yourself those scars until they hand you the blade after holding you over a cliff." The nation gets up, moving around the room before leaning against the wall near the window.

France watches with keen interest, gaze half lidded and exhaling another breath of tar. "Destroy, destroy, destroy. God wants us to preserve this body, when in fact the whole world is yelling, _'Kill yourself. Kill yourself. You would die for me, wouldn't you?'_

England scoffs. "And our people are the ones who think themselves fit to live amongst angels when in reality they still wander with Alighieri in that damned forest." He rolls in eyes in exasperation and keen annoyance.

France smiles, taking in a heavy inhale of smoke. "Everyone will eventually make their way to God."

His husband's gaze flickers to the half open window, eyes distant and voice cold. "Everyone but us."

* * *

><p>If there was one thing that they could agree on, it was to never let this crippling self-hatred they felt at time to bleed out and stain both of the twins. That was never allowed. France sighs and he can feel both of their anxiety and nervousness spike up as minutes went by. The thoughts of regrets soon gave way to major impatience on both their parts and before he knows it, he's watching the Englishman pace up and down the room, muttering to himself.<p>

"They'll be here." Francis reassures him, thought his own patience was beginning to be overwhelmed by the desire of seeing their children (properly this time) after so long. Arthur's vibrant green eyes flashed fire at the Frenchman.

"I want them here. _Now_." The words are practically snarled and he can see the underlying tone of _you understand the turmoil I'm feeling right now right of course you do I just want to see them that's it that's all god I didn't know that it would actually be this difficult seeing your children._

Exactly three minutes and forty seven seconds tick by before their ears pick up the sound of footsteps coming closer to the door. Something small in the back of both their minds doesn't want the door to open, doesn't want to see how the last five years have affected them, doesn't want to see their faces.

The door opens without a sound and as two pairs of eyes lock onto the nations into the office, both parents could feel one single emotion that played out from the mixture of love, fear, and overwhelming, absolute relief.

_Guilt. _

* * *

><p><strong>YAY! YOU FINALLY HAVE CHAPTER 6 PART II! *dodges slew of angry cries and bullets* Ok, ok. <em>I'm sorry it took so long.<em> There. I said it. And lucky for the rest of you, I'll be continuing this soon, so yes. There will be a Part III. I couldn't just leave it on a sad cliffhanger. **

**I honestly feel like England and France would be extremely bitter about their own state of being after the Second World War. As we all know, it kind of sucks being a nation. **

**Anyone catch the reference to Dante?! *crickets* No? Just me? ...Ok then. By the way, the song that has inspired this entire fic, both Parts I and II has been _Ghost of You_ by My Chemical Romance. **

_**At the end of the world**_

_**Or the last thing I see**_

_**You are**_

_**Never coming home**_

_**Never coming home**_

_**Could I?!**_

_**Should I?!**_

***SOB* If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, please post in comments or PM me! I like getting messages. It's like a more whimsical way of commination. The faster I get reviews, the faster I update! Also, tell me what you enjoyed about the fic so far! **

**And as a special treat, give me requests for what you think should or what you think is going to happen! :) **

**READ AND REVIEW!**


	15. Author's Note

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Hello, people! Guess what?! I'm alive and I'm sure many of you have been wondering, "where the hell have you been for the past month?" and all I can say to that is...writer's block sucks.

Sneak Peak just for you guys:

_The buzzing from the flickering lightbulb swinging vicariously on the ceiling was more annoying than the throbbing headache itself._

_ Canada leans his head against the stained wall of the cramped, one person bathroom, and stands there waiting for the sound of retching in the stall to cease long enough so he could talk. "It'd be nice if you could hurry this up." _

_ Another heave, and he winces at the sound of vomit being expelled from his brother's stomach and spilled out into the porcelain bowl. Matthew brings up a hand to run over his face, only to stop and stare at the sight of blood collecting on his fingertips. The crimson trickled from his left nostril. _

_ Finally, the toilet flushes and out stumbles the nation. The American runs a hand through his blond hair, leaning against the counter.. _

_ "You look like shit," Matthew states._

_America coughs and red suddenly spots inside the dirty sink. "Fuck…you."_


	16. Chapter 16

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_April 1917_

"No."

The American bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he could almost taste the crimson burst forth and pool inside the cavern of his mouth. He could at least have the dignity to face him, turn around. But the usually vibrant green eyes that stained his childhood memories like a canvas now only focused on the glass of the window, his body turned slightly away from the nation standing on the opposite side of the low table.

Alfred adjusts the glasses on his nose for the thousandth time before clearing his throat, though the action itself did little to quell the growing frustration. The words, when finally spoken, are seethed through a gritted set of teeth and the sound only a bit over a whisper.

"I don't need your permission."

England snorts, green eyes cold as they glared daggers into his son. "Then why are you here?"

And there it was. The question that he had pushed to the back of his mind during the entire trip and even now, staring his father straight in the face, he couldn't really figure out the answer. At the very least, _the answer that he wanted._

"I deserve this." The words sounded weak even to him.

"You don't think I know that fact?" England has turned fully in his seat now, leaning back in his seat and America has to fight the urge to keep the anger from coming up once more and punching the blank look off of his father's face.

"I think that you're ignoring that fact," America deadpans. "But then again, what else is new?"

The anger in the elder nation's eyes is immediate. America can feel a slight tightening in his gut at the silent response before the reply is ground out from England, voice quiet. "I suppose you're right. You're dealing with an adult and I'm dealing with a stubborn little boy who still thinks war is a game."

The action from the younger nation is immediate, hands slamming against the desk with a clatter. England doesn't even flinch. "You son of-"

"And what do you think it will achieve? Comradery, loyalty? First rule, Alfred. _Do not get attached." _He cuts him off, raising an eyebrow before standing, leaning forward a practically spitting the words into his son's face. "If you want my permission, you aren't going to get it."

Alfred's nails dig into the wood of the table before pushing off and moving about the room. England watches his movements with growing wariness. It wouldn't help anyone if the boy started to attack him, but Alfred only glared daggers into the floor, muttering to himself in French under his breath. Arthur breaths a deep sigh, rubbing his eyes and wincing at the ache in the small movement.

"What would you do?" The question is quiet and he visibly flinches at the word's that spill from his son's lips before giving a heavy sigh once more. "If I left?" The nation's clear blue eyes look up to meet green only to find him arranging the papers onto his desk with increasingly frantic movements.

"As hard as it might be to believe, I'm like this-"

"Oh, what for me? Because you care?! Don't give me that bullshit!" Alfred snaps and the paper in the older nation's hand crumbles slightly, but somehow neither of them can stop the anger bursting forth. His head snaps up to glare fully his son, green eyes filled with rage.

_"__Don't you dare."_ Arthur snarls the words but the boy only continues, voice seeming to grow louder in the small office, blue eyes cold.

"N-no you don't care. You never cared because I was never good enough to be something of myself in the eyes of the great British Empire. Nothing I can do will ever be enough for you will it? There was always something wrong, something to be fixed, so tell me now, what is that you need to throw away-"

_"__For God's sake, I can't lose you again!" _

The silence that comes afterwards doesn't help either of them breathe, but somehow Arthur finds something in his lungs to keep him going, ignoring the look of confusion on his son's face. "Watching you walk out that door all those years ago _killed me_, Alfred. And I'll admit it; I hated you for doing so but you cannot understand the hate I felt for myself. You were the only thing that I hadn't fucked up in my entire existence, the one thing that I would do anything for, even if it meant crushing you the way I did."

He rubs a hand over his face, trying to block out anything but the silence that greeted him from the giant statement. The sky outside is grey, overcast with only a few drafts of sunlight coming through.

Same as his mistakes.

By the time he turns around, America is already gone.

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><p><strong>Salutations fellow readers! <strong>

**I'm satisfied with this chapter, not in love with it, but meh. Funny, I kept of thinking how much easier it would be to write about Canada and America arguing over something entirely different than England and America arguing... Hahahaha. Meh. :) I'll probably be posting something like that tomorrow, so you guys are in luck! :) **

**April 1917: America enters World War I. My main concern was how to portray the struggle between America and England in the main concept of him _fighting with his men_, not just entering the war itself. They can't really do anything about that, unfortunately. ****Think of this chapter as a sort of warm up in a way. My brain is coming back to getting things together...so. :) Huzzah. **

**PM me or post in comments for questions or requests! **

**READ AND REVIEW! **

**I missed you guys by the way! **


	17. Chapter 17

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

_For Autumn _

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><p><em>Part I<em>

"Should you be driving?"

The Canadian doesn't even respond to the words at first, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the steering wheel as he waited for the intersection to clear. Alfred leans back in his seat, crossing his arms as he looks out the window into the growing darkness of the evening.

"You could at least drink something."

Matthew snorts, rubbing a hand over his face. "Dude, your coffee is shit."

"Better than nothing."

Matthew only shrugs, gaze joining his brother's outside in the numerous cars as he turned into the intersection. The lights themselves were nothing but a blur of colors on both their senses and he blinks again to clear the sleep from his eyes.

_Dude. _The familiar shiver of electricity goes down his spine as his brother's thoughts invaded his headspace; the feeling itself they should have been used to after literally centuries, but nevertheless it only seemed to stay.

_God, Alfred. Don't get your knickers in a twist. _The bad imitation of their British father makes both nations snort with laughter as America grasps the cup beside him and downs the last vestiges of his coffee, wincing slightly at the bitter taste in the back of his throat. Matthew takes his own, actions repeated as the caffeine went through his system, albeit slower than either of them would have liked.

"Does it ever get any easier?" The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, floating through the small space of the vehicle. America doesn't look up from scrolling through his phone and in the dim light, the other nation can see how _tired_ he is. The bruises are barely evident underneath his eyes and almost invisible with his glasses on, along with a slightly pale pallor to his skin. As if to testament to the fact, the nation yawns, stretching out his long limbs like a cat in the small space before responding to his brother.

"No. Guess we're stuck in circle for the rest of our-"

"Ever existing lives?" Matthew finishes, earning an exasperated, but similarly exhausted look from his twin.

"I don't need you-"

"Finishing-"

"What-"

"You're going to say?"

The punch in the arm is nothing new and he can feel some sense of lightness in the weight of his brain and the whole day of meetings and talking and work and schedules and times when all they wanted to do was sleep and for once ignore the voices inside of their brains. The laughter is built up in their throats and spilling out into the vehicle, heads thrown back in some exhaustion filled bliss, blue eyes meeting the others for a moment.

_The lights themselves didn't even look that close. _

Canada feels his thoughts react before his body, gaze turning from laughter to confusion and shock as a screech invaded the air. Alfred turns his head around, a question on his lips before the headlights fill his vision. His head snaps back to his brother and his hand moves quicker than either thought possible to grasp his for a moment.

_Matt-_

The nation's eyes lock onto his brother's as the bright blue Honda slams into the side of their Prius.

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><p><strong>First off: Sorry this is so short! <strong>

**Second: ****I would like a show of hands on how many of you hate me right now. *looks around* Well then, that's a bit more than I expected. Don't worry, I will be continuing this. I promise. Now that's the second thing I have to continue within _Jigsaw_ as from Chapter 6, parts I-II, the boys _still_ haven't seen their parents yet. Sad... :) **

**Third: All will come to a sufficient end. **

**Brownie points to anyone who can guess what song is for this chapter! No hints this time! **

**READ AND REVIEW!**


	18. Chapter 18 (Chapter 6-Part III)

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_Not anyone I really know_

_Just another pilot down _

**_ Not the Red Baron_**|| Tori Amos

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><p>"Do you need something?"<p>

England pauses by the doorway, green eyes glancing at the figure of his son, practically huddled on top of his blankets. The words are not tinged with sleep, as he had been hoping for when he came up the stairs, but something that sends a sharp twisting in his gut. The nation clears his throat, grip tightening slightly at the question before replying.

"You didn't eat dinner, so I brought something I thought-"

"Thanks." The response is more than curt, and Alfred wants to wince at the less than gentle way the plate is put onto the table. A part of him wants the elder nation to leave him with the darkening tendrils of his own thoughts, but it given the sounds of him sinking into a chair near his bed, that wasn't going to be happening any time soon.

Arthur notes the way the boy's finger's rub against the raised flesh on his opposite wrist and tries to push the reminder of his near loss with a shudder. The shifting in the chair makes the both of them flinch, and Arthur fiddles with the fabric of his pajamas before speaking.

"Do you need anything?"

_Why yes a feeling of safety, home, security without my government breathing down my neck along with some courage and something else than this hero complex that requires me to feel everything and save everyone when I don't even know myself and why weren't you there Dad why'd you have to look me in the face and lie to me that everything was going to be okay but it obviously isn't because I can't don't won't shouldn't will never sleep and Mattie gets panic attacks and guess what we can't take any noise anymore or light or cold or anything that reminds us that we're alive because it hurts too damn much to actually live-_

"I'm fine." The words scream_ lie lie lie lielielieliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliarliar_ so loud that even as sleep deprived and tired they both are, the signal of that fact plays itself right in front of his father's face

__is a mixture of emotions that he can't even begin to go through, so he and his brother stand awkwardly in front of the door and stare. Everyone can practically feel the tension in the air as he and his brother's eyes rack over their parents form._

_"Dad?"_

_America has no idea after hundreds of years how the childhood term seems to spill out of him but the sight of his father so worn and hollow and old makes him so scared he can't even think straight. He doesn't even notice he's said the word aloud, though the three occupants in the room almost missed it. England blinks, one, twice, and for a moment he swears he doesn't see the fully grown nation in front of him but rather the two year old colony wrapped around his leg begging him-_

'We'll be back before you know it.'

_He clears his throat._

_"You look well." He wants to wince at the hollowness in his voice. Both adults could hardly stop staring at these alien men in front of them. No longer boys, no, all of the softness in their faces gone. It was their eyes that made his breath catch in his throat and make it so tight- beautiful blue eyes replaced by empty opaque glass from which he could discern nothing._

_The realization made their hearts ache__

"Alfred."

The nation's back arches the word so quickly that England can hear his spine click. The white of his undershirt riles up slightly, and he has to lean forward slightly to see in the dim light of the room the expanse of a new scar, harsh and thick against the boy's lower back and disappearing upwards and underneath his shirt.

The words are not harsh as Alfred had thought they would be at his coldness, but rather tinged with something his fuzzy mind can't quite place. He doesn't even notice his nails digging into the flesh of his wrist until the older nation leans forward and gently dispatches his death grip.

The new scar _burns_.

America hoists himself up, struggling amidst his own emotional fatigue and the adult next him gripping his arms. He beats his fists against England's chest, trying to quell the frustration and sadness and fear and _goddamnit he said he would always be there why weren't you now?_

"Alfred! Stop it! You are going to hurt yourself!" England is not yelling, but his voice is raised enough in volume and firmness for Alfred to hear, but not necessarily listen to the instructions. The shaking is now visible, and before he can do anything about it, the boy is now trying to control the sobs racking his frame.

The protective nature is immediate and Arthur relaxes his grip on the younger nation's forearms to move himself off the chair and onto the edge of the bed. The position itself is somewhat awkward, with the covers twisted along the space of the bed itself, but he manages, pushing himself higher against the bedpost and gathering the shivering mass into the circle of his arms.

America only seems to cry harder when his parents begins to soothe him, wincing as he felt his hand slowly move circles up and down his back like he was a child. The betrayal was childish, he realized in the moment, but even so it was still present.

"I-I'm s-s-sorry." The words are hiccupped against his shoulder and England frowns in confusion, hand moving to run his fingers through the boy's honey blond hair.

"What on Earth would you have to be sorry for?"

_Everything. _

The realization of this makes the nation only poorly stifle another sob and Arthur can feel Alfred's fingers gripping the front of his shirt in a death grip. It takes a few moments before he speaks again, taking careful and calculated breaths as best he could.

"I was so s-sacred and so tired of t-t-trying to be the hero and you were right because I didn't know what was out there and god, I h-hated you for t-t-t-that-" America cuts off, the pain in his chest growing exponentially bigger by the second.

_Well why didn't God just kill him now and get it over with? _

'Guilty' wouldn't even begin to cover the emotions England felt at this moment, feeling the weight of his own fears and worries for that of his children placed even more heavily on his shoulders. But all he can do is hold him closer than he already did.

"They hurt me, and you weren't the-r-r-re I-"The words are sobbed against his shoulder as they sink into England's brain. His hand continues to run his fingers though his hair, pausing to press a kiss into the messy locks.

"I'm not gone, Alfred. I'm here, with you," he pauses to move America's body slightly, positioning his head so that it lies against his chest and before long America can hear the low drumming of his heart in his ear underneath the fabric of his shirt. "And that is never going to change."

"It's my fault. If I had listened to you back in '17 this wouldn't have-"

"Stop." England's voice is firm. "You can spend eternity thinking about all the 'what ifs'. If it had been up to me I wouldn't have let you walk out that door nearly two hundred years ago if I knew this would happen. But I did, and there's nothing anyone can do to change it."

America's breathing has gone down from gasps to hiccups. Arthur rubs his hand up and down his back before his son speaks again, voice quiet. "I haven't felt like this since Lincoln. Like a mad animal who needs to be put down." A wet chuckle burst through his lips, before breaking off in a small whimper.

England rocks him back and forth. "Don't say that. Not ever. You can't handle everything at once, you should know that. No one thinks you unable to do what you need to do, not me, or France, or your brother, or anyone else. And if they do, they'll have to come through me first. Not only are you stubborn, obstinate, and one of the bravest people I have ever known, but you are _my son_. And nothing is going to change that, do you understand me?"

A pause. And then a slow nod, before Alfred gives a small smile, a weak and tired one at best, but nevertheless a smile. "Yeah, Dad."

"Damn right, I'm your father." England says softly, breathing a sigh of relief at the low breathing that comes a few moments later. He removes the slightly askew glasses from Alfred's face and sets in on the nightstand beside the bed, smoothing back his hair with gentle fingers. "I'm going to protect you." The words are whispered in the now quiet room.

Even with the almost foreign moment of peace, he can still feel his own anxiety building up, the scars on his own back burning slightly as he moves quietly off the bed, pausing to press a kiss against the sleeping nation's forehead.

_Even if it kills me. _

The lamp on America's bedside is switched off.

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><p><strong>FINALLY FINISHED WITH THIS PRAISE JESUS. Guys, this actually took me forever to come up with a decent ending, but here it is! Finally finished with Chapter 6! <strong>

**READ AND REVIEW!**

***whispering offstage* **

**What? **

***whisper whisper***

**You mean I have to do a reunion scene with France and Canada? **

***whisper whisper***

**Like...now?**

***whisper***

**_Damn it! _**

**Not going to lie you guys, but I literally forgot about France and Canada. Sorry any French/Canadian readers! My bad... *sighs* Ok then. **


	19. Chapter 19

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

_Summer 1734_

She loved to laugh.

The fact itself was apparent every time she did something, be it with either him or France or just by herself. The child seemed to enjoy everything, finding pleasure in the smallest of things, like eating her lunch, albeit quite messily, or just the larger aspect of life.

England laughed too, hunching over the girl from where she lay on the low couch with one foot in her mouth and gnawing lazily. The infant grins, a toothless smile full of gums, tongue and drool. The nation only chuckles at her small untidiness, taking out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping away the residue, coaxing the colony's foot out of her mouth.

"Your appendages are not for teething on, sweetheart," he croons to her before turning slightly. "Frog!" he yells over his shoulder.

The Frenchman appears out of the corridor, hands full with the girl's twin brother, who at the moment was concentrating on grabbing the cravat on his father's neck.

"It would be nice if you could not insult me in front of our children for once," he sighs. The nation only scoffs.

"Where's her pacifier?"

France shrugs, switching Matthew to his opposite arm. "How should I know?"

"You're her father."

"So are you. I don't even know why you're asking this of me, considering I was the one who had to get up at two in the morning because _someone_ was hungry. Isn't that right, _ma cherie?_" France croons to Amelia, leaning down to kiss her head. She giggles at the gesture, reaching out with two small hands towards her brother's face. Matthew laughs, similarly doing the same.

England takes the opportunity to get up and move about the room, opening and closing cupboards until he found the light blue pacifier.

"How did the meeting go with Henry?"

"George. For God's sake, is it that hard for you to keep my rulers straight?"

"Maybe if they stopped naming their sons the same damn name nine times in a row I wouldn't have a problem." France points out, trying to hold the squirming Matthew. England sighs, leaning against the counter. "Was he upset?"

"That she was a girl? Of course." The Englishman snorts, moving back over to his husband and children, before sitting back on the couch and leaning over his daughter once more, pacifier in hand. Amelia has somehow managed to get her foot back inside her mouth.

"You didn't do anything I'm assuming?' France asks, grasping Canada's hand with gentle, but firm fingers to keep the boy from strangling him. "_Arête, mon petit_. Do you want to choke me to death?" His hand digs into his pocket and pulls out his pocket watch, handing it to the young colony. Canada immediately begins to chew with vigor, prompting a small smile from France as he moves into the kitchen, shifting the child slightly in his arms.

England shrugs, coaxing the appendage out of Amelia's mouth, much to her displeasure. "No. Although I must admit, it would have been nice to put some sense into the man. He says I should be more focused on my duties and less focused on doting over some colonies."

France's eye narrow at the remark, bouncing Matthew up and down lightly as the baby continued to gnaw lazily on the pocket watch. His parent mutters in French, enough for England to know that it wasn't entirely polite towards his ruler.

"He's the king." England points.

_"Il est un idiot." _France mutters angrily. "I wouldn't mind going to war aga-"

"No."

"Longest was, what, 100 years? That's not much."

"116, you ninny. I wasted enough valuable resources on fighting _you_."

"Still won."

"Shut up."

Amelia is whining now with the lack of attention, foot moving up _again_ to put into her mouth before her father grasps it with one hand and coaxes the pacifier into her mouth with the other, hushing her from her small whimpers. He leans down to kiss her nose, prompting a shrill of laughter to bubble up from America.

England cocks his head at the young colony, who looks up at her parent with dark blue eyes and a smile that could brighten up any room as she sucks her pacifier. The nations sighs, smoothing back her strawberry blond hair before speaking. "You may not have been what was desired but that makes you no less dear to me. If you were a boy, you would have belonged to the king and all rulers after him. But you, my Amelia Elizabeth, shall be mine."

_Always._

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><p><strong>Well... that got unexpectedly cute. England being a legit dad. Cuteness!<strong>

**French Translation(s)**

**(1): "My dear/darling/sweetheart"**

**(2): "Stop, little one!"**

**(3): "He's an idiot."**

**Historical Note:**

**England and France's banter is about the Hundred Years War. Pretty interesting piece of history really, even though it technically lasted 116 years, but meh. The One Hundred and Sixteen Years War doesn't sound as catchy I guess. Also, the current king of England at this time is George II. Shout out to my history teacher for giving me said information! **

**READ AND REVIEW! Also, leave in comments what you want me to continue next in terms of my stories! **


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